


Howl

by illwick



Series: Unwind [34]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (but not really?), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Breeding Kink, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Dom!John, Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Omega Verse, Porn with Feelings, Safe Sane and Consensual, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27051004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: A little whiskey by the fireside on a chilly October night.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Unwind [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/704085
Comments: 164
Kudos: 293





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just in time for Halloween, here’s a porny little angst-fest (or an angsty little porn-fest?), with a sly hat-tip to the Omegaverse. Enjoy!
> 
> \--Note: There's a sexual encounter described here that occurs under the influence of alcohol, but as I write this as an established relationship, everything that occurs is consensual.

Sherlock closes his eyes and attempts to block out the shrill buzz of the chainsaw emanating from the television. Across the room on the sofa, John and Lestrade are issuing ear-splitting cackles of horror between bouts of hysterical laughter, the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table between them looking considerably emptier than the last time Sherlock checked. He resists the urge to bury his head in his arms and weep.

“Would you _mind?_ Some of us have _work_ to do.” He sounds snippy and sulky even to his own ears, but so what, he _is_ both those things. He’s on the fourth day of an _incredibly_ tedious case, and his mental fortitude-- and his patience-- are both wearing thin.

“Oy, Sherlock, lighten up! Just a bit of Halloween fun. Come on, you love gore!” Lestrade gesticulates aimlessly in the direction of the screen which, Sherlock is horrified to discover, is currently projecting an offensively anatomically incorrect disembowelment of a torso.

“Besides,” John hiccups unsteadily. “We have an _office._ For _working._ It’s _downstairs._ This is the sitting room. It’s for… _sitting.”_ He titters at his own non-joke.

Sherlock cocks an unamused eyebrow in his direction. “You’ll note I happen to be _sitting_ as well. At the _desk. Working._ And until the sulfate byproduct evaporates, it’s quite dangerous downstairs.”

“Right, right, as you _famously_ say, _safety first._ That’s your worst trait, you know? Your crippling aversion to _risk.”_

Ugh. So John’s clearly passed the _tipsy_ threshold and soldiered straight on to _drunk._ How irritating.

Sherlock had admittedly not paid much attention earlier that afternoon when John announced Lestrade was coming over that evening for _drinks and a film_ or somesuch nonsense, on account of it being… some sort of holiday? He couldn’t be arsed to process it, as he was buried in his research and under a strict deadline.

But now he’s being forced to sit here and _watch_ while John and Lestrade _‘hang out’_ like a couple of plebian meatheads, watching some cinematic abomination that makes even the crap telly in which he himself occasionally indulges look like a masterpiece.

“C’mon, Sherlock, come off it and have a drink with us. You don’t have to watch the film, you can keep working, eh? Take the edge off a bit.” Lestrade picks up the bottle and shakes it enticingly. “You know this’ll spice up your research on… what is it you’re researching again?”

“Wolves,” he responds with a scowl. “The reproductive cycle of wolves.”

Lestrade and John exchange a pointed _Look_ and dissolve into giggles. Sherlock resists the urge to throttle them both and dismember them with a chainsaw of his own.

“Get out,” Lestrade shakes his head as he fills the spare glass on the table and pushes it in Sherlock’s direction. “What’s the reproductive cycle of _wolves_ got to do with a _case?”_

“There was an incident at the Berlin Zoo involving their pack of Arctic White Wolves, and it’s imperative that I accurately identify the date on which the alleged incident occurred. Luckily the keeper recalled that it was at the time of the female’s estrous, so I’m backtiming based upon--”

He gives up as he observes Lestrade and John, who have somehow turned into 12-year-old schoolboys, attempt not to giggle at the word _estrous._ The immaturity is infuriating.

“Anyway…” John manages to compose himself, then picks up the full glass of whiskey and offers it to Sherlock, who eyes it skeptically. “Come on, love. You’ve been working too hard. Might as well mix in a _little_ pleasure while you’re over there reading wolf porn--”

This sets the two of them off again, and Sherlock is forced to take the whiskey before John spills it all over the rug.

He must admit, the whiskey helps a bit. There’s a nice fire going in the fireplace, and he’s eventually able to tune out the shrieks and screams emanating from the telly as his brain cloaks itself in a soft, warm buzz, as if his thoughts have settled beneath a woolen blanket. Even John and Lestrade’s banter fades into a pleasant background hum as he clicks through his two dozen tabs of zoological articles.

_The female’s estrous is signified by the onset of heat, a release of sex pheremones that send the male alpha into rut. During this time, the desire to breed becomes overwhelming, and they often separate from the rest of the pack._

Sherlock sips his drink diplomatically and clicks to another tab, his eyes scanning for relevant data.

_The male mounts the female from behind and brings her into submission with a bonding bite, issued at the base of the female’s neck upon penetration._

Sherlock clears his throat and shifts a bit in his seat as he runs his fingers sentimentally over the back of his own neck. He’d be remiss not to remember all the times John’s bitten him there while they were engaged in coitus. Sherlock _loved_ being bitten while John was taking him. It made their coupling feel feral, wild… _dangerous..._

He cracks his neck and recrosses his legs, casting a sidelong glance at John who, disappointingly, appears completely absorbed in the movie.

_Like the domestic canine, the male Canis lupus becomes physically tied to his mate during copulation due to the swelling of the male's penis and the constricting of the female's vaginal wall._

Sherlock shifts again and takes another sip of his drink, resolutely _not_ thinking about the sensation of squeezing his channel tight around John’s turgid cock as he rides him to completion. After all, that would be entirely inappropriate. This was just _science,_ nothing more.

_The bulbus glandis (also called a_ bulb _or_ knot _) is an erectile tissue structure on the penis of canid mammals. During mating, immediately before ejaculation the tissues swell up to lock the male's penis inside the female. The locking is completed by circular muscles just inside the female's vagina; this is called "the knot" tightening thus preventing the male from withdrawing. The circular muscles also contract intermittently, which has the effect of stimulating ejaculation of sperm, followed by prostatic fluid, as well as maintaining the swelling of the penis and therefore the tie, for some time. For some breeds the tie may last up to half an hour or more._

He swallows. What must _that_ feel like, to be physically _locked_ to one’s partner and forced to endure such prolonged ejaculation? Despite himself, a shiver runs down his spine. He vividly recalls all the times John’s restrained him during sex, forced him down, made him _submit._ What would it feel like to be dominated like that in the throes of a consuming heat, then held captive by his mate’s _body?_ To be completely ruled by one’s biological instinct to consummate, to _breed…_

He feels quite parched and downs the rest of his glass, then helps himself to another.

He doesn’t know what time it is when the movie ends, and barely issues a nod in Lestrade’s direction as he takes his leave. Apparently at some point John wanders off to bed, because by the time Sherlock emerges from his Internet Wormhole, the flat is dark and quiet and the fire is reduced to embers.

Which is a shame, really, because he’s hard as hell and in desperate need of a good, solid rogering.

Slapping his laptop shut, he drains the last of his third (fourth? _fifth?)_ glass of whiskey and deposits it resolutely on the desk. Then he stands, tousles his hair, casts a passing glance at himself in the mirror above the fireplace (he looks pale and a little tired, but he’s wearing John’s ARMY t-shirt which he knows John finds arousing), and then marches resolutely down the hallway in the quest for a well-deserved shag.

And this was the loveliest part of having a proper _partner,_ wasn’t it just? That despite the time, all it takes is for him to slip into bed and curl up behind John and murmur into the whiskey-salt crook of his neck, _“John, please, I urgently need your cock in me”_ and John is groggy but a quick wrap-around and a few good strokes of his length through his pajama bottoms and he’s moaning and sighing and rolling over to lick into Sherlock’s mouth, pressing him down into the pillows as Sherlock arches and moans beneath John’s roaming hands.

It’s a little clumsy but endearingly earest, and what they lack in drunken coordination they easily make up for in giddy enthusiasm. In a blur, they’re suddenly naked, and John’s breath is heavy and urgent in the heat of the dark, his fingers demanding as they find their mark. Sherlock spreads his legs and buries his face against John’s delicious pecs as John works his digits inside him, brushing up against every delicious point buried within his eager passage, and John moans and Sherlock _moans_ and John rocks his fingers in and out and _in and out_ and Sherlock needs _more, please, God, John, more_ and John obliges, his motions steady and sure despite their current mutual inebriation.

Then John positions himself between Sherlock’s legs and is about to drive home when Sherlock’s brain throws the red flag.

“No, no wait,” he mutters frantically, ignoring John’s disappointed huff. He extricates himself from beneath John’s body and maneuvers himself onto his hands and knees. “Like this. Take me like this. Hard, please.”

And is this what _heat_ feels like? This tide of desperation that wells up from his cock but settles somewhere in the pressure of his grinding teeth? The emptiness of his channel, the openness of his hole, is _this_ what it feels like to _need?_

Then John breaches him and shoves all the way inside, the crude, forceful kind of impaling that Sherlock loves best.

_“Oh-- oh fuck, John. Bite me, bite me please--”_

To his credit, John doesn’t hesitate. He drops forward onto one hand and wraps the other arm around Sherlock’s chest, holding him tight, and sinks his teeth into the back of Sherlock’s neck.

_“Oh-- yeah. Oh God, yes. Bite… bite me while you fuck me, keep going John, yes, like that…”_

And John _does,_ he bites him again, at the base of his shoulder this time, eliciting a full-body shudder from the man beneath him. John’s hips withdraw and then snap forward commandingly, and Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head.

_“M-m-more. More, please, John, just like that, hard, more, please…”_

He feels delirious with pleasure, face buried between his forearms, his heart a galloping staccato against his ribcage. Fuck, it feels _transcendent,_ being _mounted,_ being… being _claimed…_

His mind skitters along a strange new path, and he imagines himself less a _man_ and more a _beast,_ completely at the mercy of pheromones and biology. And John… John is his _alpha,_ protector of their pack, dominant and strong, and he’s chosen _Sherlock_ to mate with, oh _yes, that’s it,_ John’s chosen _him_ upon which to bestow his most primitive affections, and Sherlock’s heat has driven him mad, and John _wants_ him, he _has to have him,_ and he’s the _alpha,_ so Sherlock could never resist…

_“J-J-John, yes, yes, oh fuck, oh fuck, just like that…”_

“Mmmm, you feeling good, love?” John’s voice is low and dark and a little slurred, vibrations against Sherlock’s back, whiskey and sweat and desire.

_“Y-y-yeah, oh yeah, oh God, I want… ngh, I want you to fill me up…”_

John chuckles, wet lips against his vertebrae. “You want to take my come?”

_“I--”_ Sherlock’s brain is on the fritz, and his mouth has disconnected from his hard drive completely. _“I want you to breed me.”_

John’s hips stutter and he issues an odd little grunt that makes Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat. But he doesn’t stop moving. “You want me to breed you?”

Fuck. Sherlock has no idea what he’s saying, but he doesn’t care. He just knows _he wants this._

 _“Yes… ngh, God, yes, want you to breed me, fill me up with your come, lock me to you, make me yours, harder, John, harder, fuck…”_ Now that the word’s out of his mouth, he can’t stop the thoughts from coming.

John’s hips move faster, his thrusts becoming harsher, more demanding. Sherlock imagines what it would be like if John had a knot, teasing against his entrance with each stroke, seeking admission to lock them together in that most intimate embrace.

John bites his neck again, harder this time, and Sherlock arches and keens, pelvis tilting back and up, seeking to take John impossibly deeper.

_“John, I want, I want--”_

“Mmm, yes, love, anything you want, anything, I’ll give you anything…”

_“God, mate me, fuck me, fill me up, want to be bred by you, only you, John, I will, I will--”_

John’s voice sounds far away. “Can you take it all? Take everything I’m about to give you?”

_“Yes, yes, I’ll be so good for you, all for you, just please, please--”_

“You going to carry my seed? Keep it inside you?”

_“Yes--”_

“Keep you nice and full and claimed, mine, only mine--”

_“Only yours John, God, I’m yours, fill me up, please, I’m yours to own, to claim, make me take all of you, I’ll carry it, carry it all, breed me, breed me, please, please--”_

“Fuck, I’m going to come--”

_“Do it, do it, knot me, knot me, put it inside me, all of it, OH! OH! OH!”_ Sherlock slams his eyes shut and imagines John’s knot swelling and forcing its way inside of him at last, consummating their union entirely.

“Fuck--” It’s a bitten-off curse followed by a low, desperate moan, and stars explode behind Sherlock’s eyes as he’s locked to his mate with a stunning binding bite, knotted and filled and completely, utterly _tamed._

He follows John over the edge with a wail, one hand flying to his cock to stroke himself through his climax, the pleasure emanating from his throbbing prick still somehow secondary to the pleasure of being filled with John’s release. He swears obscenely through his teeth at the blinding brightness of it all, the jagged intensity, the dizzying satisfaction. He sways as he squeezes his channel as tightly as he can around John’s length, satisfied in the resulting gasping groan from behind him as he milks John’s cock as hard as he can.

Eventually there’s a sort of stunned silence, then John makes to pull out but Sherlock grabs his wrist and shakes his head frantically.

“No. No, stay in me for a bit, please…”

John, apparently mistaking Sherlock’s horny fantasising for a (not wholly unprecedented) bout of post-coital insecurity, proceeds to press lavish kisses against the back of Sherlock’s neck as he helps lower him face-down onto the bed, careful not to interrupt their joining as he settles to lie on top of him, his spent cock still sheathed inside him. “Mmm, love, that was amazing, you were so good for me, weren’t you? So good. Feel how much I put in you?” He kisses Sherlock’s back some more and grinds soft, slow circles against him with his pelvis, letting Sherlock _feel_ the effects of his satisfaction.

Sherlock doesn’t bother to correct John’s assumption. After all, what would he say? _‘Actually, I’m not feeling insecure, I’m just having an alcohol-fueled fantasy about us copulating like wolves.’_ John’s understanding, but maybe not _that understanding._ Over the course of their lengthy relationship, Sherlock has said some undeniably strange things in bed and John’s never judged him for it, but for tonight, he just wants to bask in contentment and doze off into a well-earned sleep.

So that’s exactly what he does.


	2. Chapter 2

Ten days later, he walks into the kitchen to find John seated at the table with two freshly-poured cups of tea placed in front of him, and a look on his face that Sherlock knows all too well.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Yes?”

John cocks his head. “Yes, what?”

“You want to talk about something. Something important. Something _tea-at-the-table_ important.”

John gives him a soft grin. “Well… yeah, I do. Join me?”

Sherlock presses his lips together and pulls out a chair, his stomach doing strange little flips. He doesn’t know why, after all this time, John asking him to _talk_ still makes him anxious. They’ve been together through thick and thin, and not once has one of their _talks_ resulted in the dissolution of their union. And yet, the butterflies persist.

He takes a sip of tea. Perfect, as always. “So?”

John looks… excited? Maybe not that, maybe a bit _anxious,_ though the line between his eyebrows indicates otherwise… Sherlock’s forced to admit he’s completely flummoxed; this is a rare John-expression that he can’t read.

“So.” John reaches down into the bag he brings to and from the surgery, and produces a handful of pamphlets. “I. I… well, I thought you might want to look at these.” He places them gingerly on the table, halfway between them.

Sherlock picks them up and flips them over to read the titles.

_Surrogacy and You_

_Your Blended Family: A Path to Wholeness_

_The Miracle of Surrogacy - Selflessness Embodied_

He drops them like they’re on fire, a flare of molten dread in his stomach.

“What the fuck is this?” The words are out of his mouth before he can filter them, but he also doesn’t particularly _regret_ them, either-- what the hell was John implying?

John looks gobsmacked. “I just thought… maybe we should have a talk… about…”

Sherlock narrows his eyes accusatively, his mind racing a mile a minute. _Did John want another child? Was_ that _what this was all about? He wanted another child and Sherlock couldn’t give him one, so he thought they’d, what, just farm it out to some_ woman, _some_ stranger, _who could do what Sherlock could not? Christ, had he wanted this_ all along? He can feel bile rising in his throat, panic settling heavy across his chest.

John seems to collect himself. “...About your… reproductive options.”

Sherlock blinks uncomprehendingly at him. “My reproductive options.” His tone is low and laced with warning.

John hesitates, then seems to steel himself and presses on. “I just… thought you might… Christ, Sherlock, I don’t know, we’ve never _talked_ about this!”

Indignation rises in a nauseating tide from the base of Sherlock’s gut. “Because I never thought we _had_ to! We have each other, we have Rosie. That’s. That’s.” He gestures wildly, willing John to understand; that was their _family!_ And now John was saying he wanted more, that they weren’t _enough?_

Unfortunately, it appears his indignation is contagious; John’s cheeks have flushed an angry red, his comforting smile quickly transforming into a defensive snarl. “The other night. You said. You said you wanted.” He pauses, and Sherlock waits with bated breath; he honestly has _no clue_ where John is going with this. But John seems suddenly lost, and Sherlock finds himself rising into an increasingly volatile fury at John’s apparent obliviousness and complete inability to communicate his intentions.

“WHAT? I said WHAT? Honestly, John, what could I _possibly_ have said that would make you think I wanted… _that?”_ He spits the word at the brochures as he slaps his hand down on the table.

John sets his jaw, self-righteousness settling over his face like a mask. “You said you wanted to be _bred._ And… and to carry my… you said _bred,_ Sherlock. Or did I mishear you?”

Sherlock is flabbergasted. _“That’s_ what this is about? My incoherent drunken ramblings while we were both two sheets to the wind and fucking each others’ brains out? Jesus, John, it’s a good thing I’m the detective here, because your deduction skills are worth piss all.”

John’s eyes have gone ice cold, lips a thin line, nostrils flaring. Sherlock readies himself for the impending lashing, but surprisingly, John manages to hold back.

“Well, I mentioned it to my therapist and she said that sometimes, feelings of _gender dysmorphia_ can arise in same-sex couples around the issue of procreation, and perhaps you were starting to feel a desire to have a child of your own and hadn’t figured out how to articulate that, and I want… I wanted to let you know, we can do that. If… If you want to.”

“Despite not being the doctor here, I can say with a fairly high degree of certainty that we _can’t.”_

John rolls his eyes, his fuse too short for Sherlock’s intentional obtuseness. “What I _mean_ is, if you feel the biological imperative to pass on your genetics, we can explore that possibility. Which is what _this_ is about.” He gestures vaguely toward the dreaded pamphlets.

Sherlock feels frozen in place, lungs constricting as if all the air has left the room. “You… you’d want _my_ child?”

John cocks his head, something resembling amusement just starting to soften the frown lines around his mouth. “Well… If you wanted a child, yeah. I’d never really considered it in a practical sense before, but sometimes I’d imagine-- in a nebulous way-- having a mini-you to keep Rosie company.” There’s a growing warmth in his eyes. “Some sort of… moon to our Rose’s sun.”

Sherlock blinks.

“I’m going to be sick.”

And with that, he stands, turns, and walks down the stairs, slamming the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Try to write porn. 2) Accidentally write angst. 3) WAIT FOR COMMENTS.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had some requests to see these two using their newly-acquired skills from therapy, so here we have it.

Sherlock is a Drama Queen. He knows this. He knows this, and while the title used to make him feel rather affronted, there are moments when he’s come to embrace it.

Moments like this one, in the swift, sweeping silence of the cemetery, where he’s currently lying on his own grave.

He remembers a few years back when he first stopped by to see if it was still there. He was at a bit of a loss for a reason why it _wouldn’t_ be; he couldn’t imagine the groundskeepers kept any sort of fact-checking tabs in regards to whether their wards were, in fact, still deceased. He thought that perhaps Mycroft would have ordered it removed, but it was a detail so trivial there was no wonder it hadn’t crossed his mind. Or perhaps it had, and his brother’s macabre sense of humour had gotten the better of him.

But the point is, it was still there. And while Sherlock doesn’t visit it often, he finds a quiet comfort when he does. He’d be hard-pressed to pinpoint exactly _why,_ but something about seeing his name there carved in black marble, an indication of an end to what had truly been just a beginning. It gives him a feeling of immortality, of omniscience, of the ultimate dramatic irony, and he revels in it.

Or sometimes, on days like today, he wallows in it. He’s reclined on the damp earth, staring up at the sky, his own tombstone looming above him, a stoically morbid promise. He frowns up at his name, cursing himself for reasons he can’t quite yet articulate.

He’s not sure why he’d reacted to John’s offer the way he had. He’d been blindsided by the topic of conversation, of course, but that was no excuse for the anger, the mortification, the physical _nausea_ that had risen up inside of him like a dormant plague, suddenly blossoming and festering to the surface after years lying in wait.

He decides to use some of the tools their counsellor had discussed with them. For all his bland platitudes and intellectual shortcomings, Anthony’s advice for the two of them had proven to be not wholly without merit, and Sherlock forces himself to _breathe_ and _reflect._

So, first: The anger.

He was angry. Why?

He was angry because… because he’d thought John was pointing out something Sherlock had always secretly feared was a shortcoming in their relationship: the fact that he wasn’t a woman. Not that Sherlock _wanted_ to be a woman; despite his evident queerness from a young age, he’d never identified as anything other than male. A male who was attracted to males. _Homo-sexual._ Simple. Obvious. Understandable.

And then along had come John _not-gay_ Watson, for whom Sherlock was some miraculous exception to a lifetime of heteronormative conquests, and Sherlock had found himself stunningly, staggeringly envious of the parade of women John worked his way through. Not because he wanted to be them, but because they could offer John Watson what he _wanted._ A home. Children. _Stability._

And then that had all gone rather spectacularly to shit, and for all the anguish it had caused, Sherlock was delighted when John finally came to his senses and realised that Sherlock was able to offer a lot as well-- though it was true their _home_ was still borderline _scuzz dump_ and their _child_ wasn’t _biologically_ Sherlock’s, and their version of _stability_ simply meant far fewer high-speed chases across London rooftops and far more paperwork, they had made it _work._

And it was true that John had stopped calling himself _straight._ After things had come to an inevitable head between them over John’s sexuality and Sherlock was finally able to articulate to John how John’s trepidation over his own orientation made Sherlock feel somehow _less-than,_ John had been an out-and-proud, card-carrying pansexual. And that… that had somehow made all the difference in the world.

Yet there were apparently still some raw nerves there. Nerves that, when nicked, proved to be live wires.

Sherlock was not a woman. He did not want to be a woman. And he did not want John to resent him for his inability to carry a child.

So that was the anger.

Next: The mortification.

He realises in retrospect that he’d been incredibly _embarrassed_ at being called out on his fantasy. He’d figured John was at least as drunk as he was, if not more, so the fact that he’d introduced a rather novel dynamic to their standard dirty talk hadn’t really seemed like a big deal at the time. But John had _heard_ him.

Not only had he _heard_ him, he’d _remembered_ it, and then he’d talked to his bloody _therapist_ about it. Sherlock’s cheeks flush just thinking about it. She must think he’s completely off his rocker.... as if she didn’t already. And her conclusion had been to tell John that Sherlock must want a _child?_ What kind of half-wit imbecile--

No, no, that type of thinking was not productive (Anthony’s voice informs him). What happens between John and his therapist is between the two of them. Hell, for all he knows, _John_ could have been the one making the leap from Sherlock begging to be _bred_ to assuming he wanted to _carry John’s child._ After all, the reality of Sherlock imagining himself being filled with a litter of wolf pups was… probably not high on the list of possible explanations for this newly-emerged breeding fixation.

So… the mortification was probably _Sherlock’s_ issue to deal with. He’d have to explain to John where his head had been at that night. Which, while awkward, is honestly not the most embarrassing thought he’s ever divulged to John, so he’d probably recover.

And last: the nausea. He’d felt physically _sick_ when John brought up the possibility of Sherlock procreating. Why?

The answer isn’t as obvious. He lets his mind wander as he stares up and the empty blank slate of the sky, the shadow of his tombstone blotting the top edge of his periphery. Why did he dread the idea so much?

The answer comes to him not in an epiphany but in a slow, aching progression of tiny revelations.

He did not want a biological child because he did not want to impose his demons upon another innocent human.

And he knows not all of his demons are biological. There’s nurture _and_ nature, hand in hand, he knows that, objectively.

But it’s not just one thing. It’s not just his awkwardness, his loneliness, his isolation, his _Aspbergers_ or _antisocial personality disorder_ or _high-functioning sociopathy,_ or whatever clinical diagnoses one gave it on any given day. It’s the depression, the manic states, the Dark Moods and obsessive workaholism. 

And the addiction. God, most of all, the addiction. He would never, could never--

He swallows hard and breathes, dimly aware of the tears slowly trickling from the corners of his eyes, running down his cheeks past his temples to water the dirt of his empty grave.

He had spent so many years of his life _alone,_ in a crippling, paralyzing, predictable pattern of longing and desperation and despair. He’d tried everything to fill that void inside of himself-- sex, drugs, swanning about crime scenes, blatantly disobeying authority figures-- he’d tried it _all,_ and nothing filled that void.

And even John doesn’t fill that void. He’d built a bridge over it, stable and sure, but the void is still there, gaping up at him with its hungry black maw, reading to suck him back down the moment he lets go of the railings.

John had built the railings. But he could just as well never have found a John.

He could have let himself get carried away with the case of the gardener with the green ladder. Could have given Mike Stamford the cold shoulder, could have been too absorbed in his experiment to look up and catch John’s cerulean gaze. Could have been too preoccupied to _subtly_ check out John’s arse as he leaned over to give Sherlock his phone.

Christ, John could have died in the middle of the road in Afghanistan. Sherlock could have OD’ed in a flophouse.

So close. They’d come so close to losing it all.

His fingernails dig into his palms and he gasps through his tears at the empty, aching pain, the enormity of all the Universe’s great _what if_ crushing down on him, pressing him back into his own grave.

For a while, he just cries.

And that’s okay. That’s another thing Anthony had taught him.

That’s okay.

Finally, he recomposes himself. He stands up and wipes the salt streaks from his face and brushes the dead leaves off his Belstaff. Then he takes a deep breath, and turns towards home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two horny madmen and a wee bit of fun.

“I’m sorry.” The words spill out of his mouth before he’s even crossed the threshold, and John peers at him from where he’s chopping vegetables at the kitchen counter, a look of pleasant surprise on his face.

“You’re--”

“Sorry, really sorry, yes.” 

John’s eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline, but to his credit he keeps his incredulity to a minimum. “I appreciate you saying that, love. Apology accepted.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “I just--”

John gives a quick nod to where Rosie is perched at the table, feet swinging beneath her as she works on her latest drawing, humming a (perceptively off-key) rendition of the Bach Triple Sherlock had been listening to the day before. “We can talk about it more later, yeah?”

Sherlock gives an understanding smile. “Yes. What are you working on there, Rose?”

Rosie looks up, blue eyes bright and adoring, and Sherlock’s heart skips a beat. “Ferns. I’m drawing ferns.” Her blossoming love of botany is cripplingly endearing, and Sherlock feels the undeniable wave of _belonging_ that washes over him at times like this-- Rosie is _his,_ even if they don’t share genes. They share a _life,_ and that is what counts.

“Ferns? Is that so?” He peers appraisingly down at her drawing as Rosie nods matter-of-factly. “Did you know that ferns have neither seeds nor flowers?”

Rosie blinks at him inquisitively. “Why not?”

“Well,” Sherlock says, pulling out a chair to join her. “They have something called _spores_ instead. See here…”

He’d have to be blind to miss the adoring look on John’s face as he reluctantly turns his attention back to dinner preparations.

Later that night, after dinner is consumed and Rosie’s bedtime routine is complete, he joins John in their chairs beside the fire, Sherlock having taken the initiative to build one for once-- _and_ he’d put the kettle on unprompted, for which he internally commends himself. John sips his tea stoically, a politely neutral look on his face. He’s waiting for Sherlock to initiate.

Sherlock clears his throat. “So.”

John gives him a wane smile. “So.”

“I… I owe you an explanation.”

John shifts a bit in his chair and takes another slow sip of tea. “Normally I’d insist you don’t _owe_ me anything, but this time, yeah, I think… I think a bit of an explanation is warranted.”

“Right. Naturally. So.” Sherlock sips his tea and collects his thoughts. God, John is handsome in the firelight, his silver-grey hair and his dignified jawline--

_Not now, Holmes._

_Right._

“When. Okay. When. When you brought up the… um, the surrogacy thing, my first emotion was _anger.”_

John gives a slight nod of acknowledgement. Anthony has walked them through these paces a dozen times: _Identify the emotion. Acknowledge the emotion. Work through the emotion._

“I realise I felt _anger_ because sometimes in the context of our relationship, I’m still insecure about my gender as a result of our past issues regarding your sexual orientation.”

John swallows but doesn’t reply.

“It’s been so much better since you’ve been-- um, _out,_ I guess. _So_ much better, John, I can’t stress that enough. But occasionally, something hits a nerve just the wrong way, and I-- I, um, spiral a bit. And I’ll work on that.”

John gives a slow nod. “I understand. I realise something like that doesn’t just… disappear overnight.” Sherlock manages a small smile. “But… you do understand that I wasn’t proposing we have another child because _I_ want another child, right? I’m perfectly content just as we are. I just wondered-- if you were, too…”

“I am,” Sherlock interjects, almost too quickly. “This is… this is perfect, John. What we have is _perfect._ The things I said the other night, it wasn’t because I… it wasn’t because I suddenly have the biological urge to procreate. Though… I do appreciate your willingness to put up with another one of me. That caught me rather off-guard as well.”

John laughs. “You’re no walk in the park, love, but I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t worth it. And you are. Always will be.”

Emotion swells in Sherlock’s chest. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Glad we settled that.”

There’s an awkward pause.

The corner of John’s mouth quirks up. “So… are you going to tell me what that _was_ about, then?”

The moment of truth. Sherlock bites his lip, then meets John’s eyes. “I was. I was, um. _Iwasfantasisingwewerewolves.”_

John’s brow furrows. “Sorry?”

Christ. Like ripping off a plaster. The next sentence he articulates with crystalline clarity: “I said, _I was fantasising we were wolves.”_

To his credit, John does not laugh. True, his shoulders shake and his lips fold in on themselves and his eyes water and his cheeks turn a rather revealing shade of puce, but he firmly, resolutely, does _not_ laugh at the quantifiably insane proclamation that has just come out of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock gives him a moment to compose himself, which he does, after an irritatingly-long beat. Clearing his throat, he rearranges his face into a considerably more neutral expression.

“You were imagining we were _wolves.”_

Sherlock doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”

John opens and closes his mouth a few times, apparently still processing this information. “Um. And you found the idea erotic because…”

“Well it’s hardly a leap from our normal fare, John.”

John cocks his head. “Forgive me, but I sort of feel like it… _is?_ Last I checked, paranormal transfiguration wasn’t really a part of our standard dirty talk.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, reduced to once _again_ having to explain simple scientific facts. “No, of course not. But we often engage in _possessive_ behaviour and verbalisations during coitus, do we not?”

John nods. “We do.”

“Biting?”

“Yes, sometimes,” John concedes.

“And we occasionally indulge in our mutual come fetish, both vocally and physically, when we call me _full_ and _wet,_ or use my anal plug to keep multiple loads in me at once so you can admire how messy I get--”

John crosses his legs and tugs at the seam of his trousers. “Yes, sure.”

“So I discovered during my research for that zookeeper case that, as it turns out, wolf copulation is sort of an… intersection of those interests.”

John barks out a laugh. “Is that so? This I’ve got to hear.”

Sherlock doesn’t allow himself to get derailed; this was serious business, after all, and he will _not_ let John make him feel foolish. “Mating occurs during intense heats, in which the-- _submissive_ partner” (he intentionally avoids the word _female)_ \-- “drives the mate into a frenzy of desire via the release of sex hormones.”

John appears to stifle a giggle, but Sherlock soldiers on.

“The actual coupling is intense and borderline violent, the dominant partner exuding control via a series of possessive bonding bites along the submissive partner’s neck.” He gives John a pointed _Look._ “And then, at the point of orgasm, the male’s penis is equipped with a thick knot at the base, which he forces inside his partner’s passage to lock him in place as he expends his release-- which can last up to a half hour.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “A _half hour?”_

“Indeed. Imagine how _wet and messy_ I’d be if you locked inside me and ejaculated for half an hour straight.”

John’s cheeks have flushed even darker, and there’s a trace of sweat along his hairline. _“Jesus.”_

“So yes, after several hours of reading about this process, I was turned on by the notion of it. And the whiskey had admittedly lowered my inhibitions, so I just… went with it.”

John gives a slow nod, still looking amused but now also _pensive._ “I can… I guess I can see that. The concept does have a lot in common with some of our erotic interests.”

Sherlock takes a steadying breath. “I do objectively realise that unleashing that on you mid-coitus was a bit… Not Good. And yes, I was drunk, but that’s not really an excuse, and for that I apologise.”

John’s smile turns warmly reassuring once more. “It’s okay. After all, it wasn’t like you were insisting we role-play or something. You were just lost in your head and got carried away. It happens. And next time, I’ll make sure to ask you about it if something catches me off-guard when we’re in bed, instead of leaping to conclusions.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

John shifts in his chair again. He’s clearly attempting to hide his burgeoning erection, and Sherlock politely does not call that out. “So, um. Now that I understand it a little more, is that still… something you want to incorporate into our dirty talk in the future?”

Sherlock scrunches up his nose. “Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?” He doesn’t feel self-conscious about his fantasy, not really, but he also doesn’t want to rope John into anything that turns him off.

John shrugs good-naturedly. “You’re a mad berk who’s been completely mental since the day I met you. The fact that you’re into some weirdly scientific sex talk is probably one of the least surprising things about you. If I weren’t down with it, I would have run for the hills screaming ages ago.”

“Fair point.”

“That said, I think I need to clarify something: Were you turned on by the idea of us _being_ wolves-- like, the actual animals-- or were you turned on by the idea of us _behaving_ like animals when we _mate?”_

And _damn,_ doesn’t John Watson just always know how to unravel every one of Sherlock’s tangled, incomprehensible neurosis and lay it out so every quirk and kink makes sense? Christ, he’s so lucky to have found him…

Sherlock can feel a flush rising in his cheeks. _“Oh._ The second one. Definitely… definitely the second one.”

“Mmm.” John slowly lowers his teacup onto the table beside his chair and licks his lips, apparently deep in thought. “So if I were to, say, stalk you like a predator that’s been driven wild by rut, crazed by the need to copulate, that would… interest you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice has gone low and soft.

John cocks his head and narrows his eyes appraisingly. “And if I were to pin you down and lick you, lap up your scent, taste your pheromones on my tongue and swallow them down, that would… interest you?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm. And if I were to bite your neck as I forcefully penetrate you, hold you in place while I ravage you, demand you procreate with me and bear my young, that would… interest you?”

_“Yes…”_ It’s barely a whisper now, his lungs compressed by the weight of his _want_.

“And if I told you I was going to knot you, lock your body to mine while I filled you with my seed, would you submit to me?”

“Y-y-yes--” His heart’s about to beat out of his chest, he’s sure of it.

“And if I promised to mate you, _breed_ you properly, make you mine, consummate our bind with my come, would you carry it for me, be _good_ for me, let me put everything I have inside you as I _make_ you take it, would you let me?

“Fuck, John, _please…”_ Sherlock feels frozen in place, pinned down by John’s words, his lips, the heat in his eyes-- Sherlock’s _alpha._

“You want that?”

Sherlock’s slouched back in his chair under the weight of John’s musings, and his legs are spreading, revealing the obscene tent at the front of his trousers. “Yes, all of it…”

John quirks an eyebrow. “Are you ready to be bred tonight? I don’t know about you, but I’m suddenly feeling _exceptionally_ virile.”

Sherlock’s hands fly to the arms of his chair, fingernails digging into the leather as he arches his back and spreads his legs wider.

“Ngha, yes, fuck, yes, breed me, _please,_ I’m ready for you, I need you, I _need_ to be bred, _please.”_

“Well then, Little Red Riding Hood. You’d better run before I catch you and mate you right here on the floor.”

In an instant, Sherlock’s scampering down the hall to the bedroom, a trail of clothes in his wake. 

With a hungry howl, John follows right behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments plz

**Author's Note:**

> This installment is short but sweet, so I'll be posting a new chapter every other day.
> 
> Leave comments-- you know I live for them!


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